Lost Wills of the Fellowship
by Logic's Prerogative
Summary: The Fellowship prepares to pass from one life to the next, leaving behind memos that none are likely to forget.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **_The Lord of the Rings and all associated characters are owned by JRR Tolkien. I am not Tolkien. I'm sure there's a link between the two._

**The Last Will and Testament of Aragorn Elessar**

_Testing._

**Testing.**

Testing.

Ah, there we go. For a moment there, I thought Legolas really did carry out his threat to liberate all my good quills. Silly Wood Elves with their obsessive compulsive naturalist tendencies. Everyone knows it's the defenseless garden weeds that really need saving.

If you are reading this letter, it means that I am no longer on this Middle Earth. If you are Elladan, Elrohir or Legolas and are reading this letter, it means that you have descended to new lows in invading my privacy, which implies that _you_ will not remain on this Earth for much longer. Either way, you will not be getting a response in the physical sense, barring necromancy, foresight, and that odd little bowl Galadriel uses to play Bingo. Or see momentous events in the past, present and future; I forget which.

As High King of Gondor, it seems imperative that I pass on my legacy in the most accurate manner possible. The words that follow shall be the most riveting to have ever made their mark in this Age, so Bilbo Baggins can start sporadically chewing his toe-hair out right now. The Little Book of Kingsmarch was not good enough eh? Ungrateful Halfling…after all the times I almost-kind of-sort of-killed; errr…after I _helped_ Frodo, you'd think that his uncle would waive the copyright laws just a little, but noooo. He didn't even include that three-hundred page essay I sent him on _'The Perils of Estel and the Thumb Wart'_. Now no one has a clue what I did after the War, barring daisy-plucking with Legolas and the occasional man-tussle with Éomer. Honestly! I have a wife and children for Eru's sake! Bravo on spreading that rumour about Rangers and their _wild ways_, Bilbo. You succeeded in fatally slaughtering an already maimed reputation. But at least I'll die with the knowledge that Arwen's with me, and not some senile old fart who ritualistically sacrifices relatives to toothpicks.

Anyway, onto to the division of my assets, which basically involves a kind of sadistic Elrond charade on my part as I dump stuff I don't want onto unsuspecting individuals. Feel free to spontaneously self-combust and wish you had sucked up sooner as I roll from my grave to Faramir's and we laugh ourselves silly over a nice hot cup of tea.

**To Elrohir and Elladan** (not necessarily in that order): You can have my room in Rivendell. Which, unless I am very much mistaken, was thoroughly decontaminated and repainted over a hundred years ago. Isn't it great to know that your family misses you, and will forever cherish the impact you made on their lives? Have fun with the place, dear brothers. I'm sure its vantage point over that discrete bathing spot favoured by the ladies will serve as a minor, trivial, completely insignificant bonus. Just don't tell Arwen or so help me, I will defy the laws of nature, nurture and common sense just to pull your hair out through your ears.

**To Legolas**: I am sure that you've gotten most of what you want from me already, including that box of honey sweets you've been eyeing since the beginning of the Fourth Age. So, as a parting gift, I'm going to indulge you with this knowledge: it really was me who stole your collection of aromatic twine socks while we were in the Fellowship. And there isn't a thing you can do about it. Hah!

**To Elrond**: Ah, my dear sweet Ada. The one who thoughtfully sent me to the Black Gates with naught but men as a last attempt to shift my romantic preferences. Has my time spent living indifferently among the Rangers taught you nothing of Isildur's legendary stubbornness? No doubt you have fled Rivendell by the time I finish this. Perhaps you may even go as far as fleeing Middle Earth altogether. But it is no matter. I'm intending to have a very _long_ and _fruitful_ chat with Námo at the first possible opportunity, so you can rest assured that my final tribute to you will not simply stop at a horde of screaming grandchildren. Mull over that, and enjoy your blessed days in the Blessed Realm. While they last.

**To Gimli**: If you look into my sock drawer, you will discover a rather knobby-looking pair depicting the various postures a hibernating chipmunk can adopt during winter. Unravel them-carefully, mind you; a depressed Nazgûl has taken to living there, and he doesn't like to be disturbed-and you should come across a vaguely golden wad of hair. That is from Galadriel's head; collected from all the times she made me scrub out her bowl for ogling at her granddaughter. Knock yourself out; just don't give yourself a stroke or something. It'll be crowed enough in the Afterlife without you blocking the entrance.

**To Sam**: In accordance with my _'Save the Weeds'_ campaign, I have enclosed a few Althelas seeds in that envelope of flyers I sent you. Plant them in a patch of soil and watch them flourish, strangling the life out of all neighboring vegetation. It is such a satisfying plant; much better than that stupid Mallorn tree my grandmother-in-law gave you. Honestly, I can't imagine why anyone would plant that thing; it doesn't even talk back! Not that I tried to start a conversation with one or anything…it was just an observation. A completely random observation. Not based on personal experience. Nope; not at all.

It was totally random.

**To Merry and/or Pippin**: I had no idea what to give you Hobbits, so I settled on the most obvious solution: food. I will be sending you a complete blueprint of Thranduil's Elvish abode in Mirkwood, complete with the necessary pin numbers and facial expressions you will need to access the kitchens. Remember: just smile and look cute; you won't go wrong. And for crying out loud, exit via the doors, not the underground river. Bilbo always had a thing for pointless theatrics.

**To Haldir**: I still remember how you used to comment on my personal odour while I was traveling in the Wild. Just to clear things up, I do not _stink_. Nor have I ever. No matter _what_ They Who Bear the Ethereal Nasal Capacity of the Firstborn may say, you have my assurance that I, Aragorn Elessar; founder of the House of Thorondor, possess _none_ of that alleged stench which has the legendary capability of felling a skunk at a hundred paces. Yes, I was a Ranger; yes, Rangers do have a distinct…_earthy_ aroma about them; but _honestly_, why in the name of Manwë's thatched hat would I want to decline to such a depreciatory state? It may sound incredible, but there are _rivers_ and _lakes _in the Wild; some of which are even void of decomposing corpses! I had plenty of opportunities to bathe- at dawn, before fighting Orcs; at noon, while fighting Orcs; at dusk, while plotting about fighting Orcs…Any offending scent that might have been on my person could therefore be attributed to only one cause: Sauron. I mean, what else would a vindictive Maia attempt to do than invade Middle Earth by means of sensory assault? It was a perfect plan: throw off the opposition's defense by employing a hapless Ranger, then strike if the opportunity was ripe. I was an innocent, Haldir! And as punishment for repeatedly censuring an innocent man, I shall see to it that you get my entire Ranger apparel, right down to the boots. I'll have you know that they haven't been washed since I battled the Watcher at Moria. Minty fresh, mellon-nin; just the way you like it.

**To Gandalf**: I just wanted to take this space to show you that you were remembered. And then I wanted to move on to demonstrate that you were also deliberately forgotten.

Well, I suppose that is all. Arwen and the children have their entitlement settled already, and anyone who was not included was left out for a reason. I'm an antisocial, yes; but unfortunately I'm also dead, so anyone who has a problem with that can just gnaw on my tomb and hope he gets deep enough for me to notice.

Finally, my epitaph. I was thinking something along the lines of: _'Here lies Elessar, father of many. Aren't you jealous?'_ Or maybe: _'Aragorn of the Dúnedain. Talented belly dancer. Hastily received, and dearly departed as compensation.' _Or: _'Aragorn Elessar, man of many names; none of which belong to the one who owes you money.'_ Just brainstorming here…

Ah, but knowing Arwen it will probably be something boring like 'Rest in Peace, Estel. Loving husband and noble King. We will remember you fondly.'


	2. Chapter 2

**The last will and testament of Legolas Thranduilion**

It seems only yesterday when I pulled out my edible organic gull-feather quill and penned down the preparation of my imminent demise. Oh wait, yesterday was the day I nobly and valiantly upheld the honour of my race by volunteering to sacrifice my priceless immortal life for some halfwit Halfling with an almost criminal hairdo. I am sure there is some completely unimportant connection.

The passing of this parchment into friendly hands means that I have undoubtedly encountered some terrible misfortune while heroically warding off scores of armoured orcs with naught but a spoon. Possibly blindfolded, crippled, and with both hands tied behind my back. If Sauron, the Witch King, or that twisted pervert Saruman happens to come across this, I swear that the shower was rigged, for by no other means would a great warrior such as myself fall to his death while washing his hair.

In accordance with the decorum that seems to be mandatory when one is plotting to depart this plane, I shall be distributing several items that are close to my heart, and best reflect my intimate attachment to those fortunate enough to be included in my exclusive gay circle. Why Estel remains so adamantly against me using that word as a reference to happiness, I fear I may never know.

**To Estel (or whichever name you have decided to go by now): **Farewell, mellon-nin. Our time together was well spent. I shall be leaving you a bottle of shampoo, as well as Rivendell's most fragrant bar of soap. Please, for the love of Mandos, take the hint. Incidentally, I did spot you eyeing my collection of socks a few days ago. I see little appeal in them, as they were knitted by my grandmother for use on her domesticated pigs…but as you truly seem to like them, I suppose you could have them as well. Stranger antics I have seen, mellon. But to be honest, all of them were committed by you.

**To Elladan/Elrohir:** My fellow Elves, the two of you were like the brothers I never had. And fortunately, never will. In your name, I have left my automatic peanut dispenser, and that cheerful diabetic badger we used to play bingo with. I fear he still does not comprehend the concept of that riveting game…perhaps you two would have better luck conveying the message than I? The poor creature appeared rather withdrawn the last time I checked, so please be kind to him. He is rather a sensitive soul, and five centuries buried under my _Line of Númenor_™ action figures can't have done much for his temper. As a side note, any letters that you might find depicting the actions of either of you and various Elf maidens are not, in any way, a form of blackmail. I was merely being a concerned friend and recording them for memory's sake. Your memory, that is. Yes. The footnotes addressed to your father must have been just a slip of the quill.

Although…to have my quill slip over ten times is rather demeaning to my writing skills…

Actually, it was Estel. His deplorable obsession with getting revenge at that foster father of his must have spontaneously possessed my quill and forced it to scribe out his deepest, darkest desires.

No, I do not know why said desires would gravitate around the private lives of Elves, or Elrond himself for that matter.

Let's just leave it as one of those unsolved mysteries; along with Galadriel's true age, and what Arwen _really_ looks like behind the makeup.

Moving on.

**To Gimli: **My dear, _dear_ Dwarf. I am sure that with the passage of time, our bond would undoubtedly mature beyond trivial spitting, insults and the occasional brandishing of sharp, pointed kitchen utensils. For now, however, I have taken great pleasure in leaving behind an empty wine barrel in your honour. I am sure you will find it holds quite a bit of sentimental value, having been used by one of your intrepid relatives in their perilous journey downriver. Take special note of the writing engraved in its surface; it depicts the journey in rather explicit detail. And, if you actually insert yourself _into_ the barrel and invoke the help of a body of water, I am sure you will be able to relive those merry days with realistic fervor. Now, wouldn't that be fun?

**To Mithrandir: **I tried to include your section of this Will; really I did. I had written it down beautifully, choreographed with those fancy pink decorated hearts you are constantly doodling on your staff. My quill just wouldn't have itthough. It really is growing quite stubborn; blame Estel and his vengeful human instincts for corrupting its innocent ink. And by the way, all those animals you bribed into following you are going to be freed one day; just you wait. I can't believe you took away my pet twig, you- you g_rey _person you…I shall never forgive you! The penguins shall have their revenge yet!

**To the Hobbits: **The presence of a fair immortal being in your midst should have been a gift in itself, but I suppose that if you _really_ need a token of my appreciation- however forced- you can have my share of the lembas. And Gimli's too; I am certain he won't mind.

I suppose this marks the end of my monologue. I was going to include a segment for Boromir as well, but I fear that with all the kingly glares Estel has been shooting in his direction, the poor man will be dead long before me. Perhaps we will be able to meet in the Afterlife then, and enjoy a polite chuckle at the luckless Fellowship we rightly chose to abandon. Although I do suspect that should such an event actually occur, I would spend the better part of eternity conducting a one-sided diatribe at Elrohir for getting my hopes up about the Halls of Mandos being a toll-free nature sanctuary filled with frolicking Oliphants in flowing gowns and friendly, knitting spiders.

As for my epitaph…well, I find it a rather curious human custom, but should Estel actually take it upon himself to so graciously burden me further with the traditions of his race, I would like something suitably Elvish. Perhaps including a conspicuous warning to dogs not to heed _any _call of Nature around my vicinity…or perhaps I should be less selfish and include a list of methods to reduce the rate of Warg killings…or maybe a map of forests that should be protected; I'm sure Treebeard would be glad to contribute…but then there are the Dragons; they're quite endangered these days you know…and there's also pollution in Bree…and smog in Mordor…

You know what- never mind a tombstone; I am going to place an order with the Elven smiths for a tomb-_parchment_. That way, anyone who feels the compulsive urge to know about my parting statements can just unroll it and read to his or her heart's content. And who knows; perhaps one day in the future they'll heed my words and set up a fund or something. The Arda Wildlife Fund; wouldn't that be something amazing?

What? An Elf can dream, can't he?

_Note: There is no evidence whatsoever that the present-day World Wildlife Fund is, in fact, a result of the deranged ranting of a disgruntled Wood Elf. The alleged parchment was never found, although the remnants of a wine barrel floating along what is now called the Mississippi River suggest that it may not have been a complete fabrication. Readers are thus advised to refrain from bribing any twigs they might come across, and to keep their hands and elbows close to their person when encountering wild penguins. Thank you for your attention. _


	3. Chapter 3

**The Last Will and Testament of Boromir of Gondor**

_Duh. Me Boromir. Me soldier of Gondor. Me manly man. Me like to smash rocks with face-_

Soldiers of Gondor are uncouth, bloodthirsty creatures whose unceasing carelessness is the only reason that the forest world as we know is ceasing to exist-

_We are the ultimate embodiments of discipline and nobility who juggle the weak, clothe the hungry and eat the poor. We live by a code of honour and virtue that is as pure as a baby's diaper-_

It is a highly rewarding job; what better way to spend your life than killing innocent, defenseless wildlife? Who else would trample daisies? A madman; that's who! Oh the poor, poor daisies-

_So join Steward Denethor's company of guards today! He is not _really_ the King; but who cares? No one cares about the _real_ King any more. Yes, _that_ King, who has been living out in the muck for years and years for his ungrateful people. Why, whoever he is, that King probably is the greatest example of noble self-sacrifice since the time of Eärendil himself- _

Honestly, why _would_ anyone care about _that_ King? He is just as bad when it comes to quills. Can you imagine plucking a hapless gull and leaving it _naked_ on some beach? That King should probably pay attention when his infinitely wise Elf friend is speaking every now and then. Maybe that is the reason the trees are always ignoring him-

Maybe_ the reason why the trees ignore me- I mean; that King- is because they are too annoyed at having to constantly reply to the incessant stream of questions that his "wise" Elf friend spouts off. Why on Arda would anyone ask a tree for advice on relationships? It is a _tree!

Well, at least the _trees _gave better advice than your stupid belly dancing suggestion! I was in a full body cast for three weeks because of that!

_That is simply because you cannot bend the way I do. Face it, Legolas: immortal or not, no one can out-dance Aragorn Elessar-_

Yes.

I do not believe we have met before. Which is quite strange, seeing that this is actually _MY _Will. In any case, now that I have retrieved this sorry bit of parchment from that Ranger-King-Paranoiac-Killjoy-Suck up and his insane vegetarian counterpart, I do believe I finally can get round to business.

Firstly, I am Boromir, son of Denethor. And yes, I am also a soldier of Gondor. That does not, however, mean that I am an insensitive, burly oaf with my half-a-brain tucked neatly behind my sword sheath. Nor does my occasional, completely manageable desire to take the Ring mean that I am _evil_. I have a father, a brother, an uncle and a pet rabbit. I love all of them, and I am tired of everyone looking at me oddly every time I try to cuddle up with my little Floppy. I mean, come _on_; Aragorn fondles Andúril every night and no one ever says anything to _him_. I want –nay; I _demand_- that I be treated with the respect I deserve! I am heir to the Stewardship of Gondor; by Manwë's congested nose, I think that warrants _some _sort of approval among this Fellowship!

Secondly, I realize that several members of the Fellowship might have stumbled across my secret passion for embroidery. Yes Gandalf, I am referring to you. And you too Pippin; do not even try to feign ignorance this time. I must say that where I come from, it is considered a great honour to be a finalist in the Gondorian Sewing Competition. Really! I am not ashamed of my talent, so I suggest that you cease draping frilly aprons across my tent. It takes a real man to wield a needle and thread. I am not ashamed. Not at all.

It's not like I _kept_ the aprons or anything.

Now, on to the division of my assets. I do not know what the future holds, but with all the ominous skull-shaped crop circles, giggling skeletons, and croqueting barrow-wights that seem to appear around me, I fear that I should prepare for the worst. You may stop drooling over the parchment now, Aragon; I am not going to bestow Stewardship onto your greasy head. Not after you ate that lovely lace cushion I made for you, oh no.

**To Faramir: **My sweet little brother. Take care of yourself, and know that I am always thinking of you. Trust me; when you are doomed to spend eternity in the company of immortals and their accumulated compilation of Interminable Songs Throughout the Ages, you would yearn for someone sane as well. To you I entrust the Horn of Gondor. I hope you remember how to use it. Remember to always blow from the diaphragm, especially when playing '_Ode to a Serenading Poodle Cult_'; father gets very annoyed when it does not sound as it should.

**To Denethor: **Father. I have put this off long enough. Should you receive this parchment, it is a sign that I have failed both you and Gondor. For that, I am sorry. However, you should know that while I became a soldier for our country, it was in fact my dream to become a world-renown opera singer. I have been taking lessons since I was five, and the other men say that I have the greatest potential since Isildur himself. Enclosed are several pictures of me at my recitals (I play the helmeted princess), as well as the copy of '_Palantír Gazing for Dummies_' that you keep asking me to pick up for you. Oh well; better late than never I suppose. It's not like you were going to lose your mind and ignite yourself or anything.

What? There is no chance of such a thing actually _happening_.

**To Gimli: **For a dwarf, you are not half bad. I enjoyed the days we spent spitting into Legolas' drinking water and gluing his hair to his boots. Therefore, I leave you with this piece of information: Legolas intends to present you with a barrel should he perish. Perhaps you could perform one last prank in my name? I know that you want to. I also happen to know that Elves can be squeezed into extremely cramped places.

**To the Hobbits: **I like you little ones. You are like woodland creatures: so small and furry. I leave in your care my precious rabbit, Sir Flopalot. He answers to the name Floppy, and eats carrots, lettuce and future Kings-to-be. Present him to our Lord Aragorn should he survive the journey to Gondor, would you? It is quite amusing to watch a grown man attempt to bury himself for fear that '_the demon bunny'_ will chew his nose off.

**To Legolas/Aragorn: **The two of you wield your titles with the grace of a constipated Warg with terminal gangrene. I am tired of your childish accusations. It is no fault of mine that my father is the Steward, or that I cannot possibly keep a look out for every bit of vegetation that I happen upon. I desire the Ring, yes, but is that any reason to shave my legs and chain me to posts? Even Frodo treats me better, and he nibbles my ears at night! So what _has_ nasty Boromir left for the Prince and the King?

_That_ is my little secret.

**To Gandalf: **Honestly, I do not really like you. Your confusing remarks irritate me to no end, and your breath smells like the rear end of a bloated cow. However, since my brother seems to have taken a liking to you, I suppose I should do the proper thing and include you in my Will. You can have my collection of yodeling birthday cards. I was going to throw them out anyway.

Well, that is all. For my epitaph, I would like something practical. Perhaps something like: _'Boromir of Gondor: the Lord of the Songs'_, or: _'Boromir, son of Denethor. Six time limbo champion' . _Or even _'Boromir: Yoga Master of the West'_. I feel like making my achievements known to all.

On second thought, maybe I just should get Faramir to come up with something good. He always was better at creative writing than I was.


End file.
